


Timestamp: Bravery by Millimeters

by Tenoko1



Series: It Started with a Fanfic Competition [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coping, Developing Relationship, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nightmares, Winchester Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 17:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14337723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Despite their new and tentative relationship, personal issues aren't magically fixed like in the movies. Personal growth would be a lot simpler if it were. Dean wishes it were that easy.





	Timestamp: Bravery by Millimeters

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!! So glad everyone enjoy ISWAFC so much!! I originally wasn't going to do any timestamps, but this wouldn't get out of my head, so here it is. More may follow, but I make no promises. Any I do write will be included in the audio and physical version as well-- so long as I post them before the audio/book formatting are finalized.

When he jerked awake gasping and panting, Dean flailed, tangled in the sheets as he scrambled, pressing his back against the headboard. The memory of running was too present in his mind, too real. The fear, dark shapes and claws and teeth, of being pressed, suffocated, crushed, unable to scream as his mouth was filled, blood and dirt choking him.

The room wasn’t pitch black, which disoriented him, unused to his new surroundings yet, the permanence of them. Sweat cooling against his skin, Dean’s eyes darted to the window, the bright moonlight overhead reflecting off the freshly fallen snow and filling his room with a soft blue light. He stared and counted slowly, trying to steady his pounding heart before he shoved from the bed.

He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, wide green eyes taking in his reflection, the waxen pallor that made his freckles more distinct, the obvious fear. Restlessness crawled under his skin. Stalking to his room, he ripped off his shirt and tossed it to the side to deal with later. He pulled another from the drawer, let the soft, clean cotton settle against his skin like a placating reassurance.

He thought about calling Sam, missing when he could pace the bunker halls after a nightmare, check all the doors and wards and the sounds of everyone asleep in their beds. He didn't want to wake him. If something were wrong, Dorothy or Charlie or even Rowena would call him, so that was the same as an affirmation of his safety.

Pulling open the drawers built into his bed frame, he did a quick check of his weapons, then the runes carved into the window frame and around the door leading to the balcony.

He paced, rubbing at his arm, body buzzing like there was too much caffeine in his system to combat a series of all-nighters.

The wood floorboards were cool under his socked feet, silent as he descended the stairs.

As with his room, the downstairs was illuminated by the ghostly blue light of the moon. He drifted through the space, checking runes carved into wood, gris-gris bags tucked away out of sight, locks to the front door and the deck, as well as the secret panels that slid out to reveal a basic weapons cache.

A surreal quiet filled his ears, a peaceful, safe insistence that didn’t ease the twisting of his nerves even as he stood outside the door of Castiel’s room, ears strained for any sound that would spur him to action.

He looked at the brass handle of the wood door, fingers twitching with the need to turn it, to look, confirm with his own eyes Cas’ safety.

Perhaps more than sight, he wanted touch. To feel Cas’ warm skin beneath his fingers, the heat he gave off. He wanted to wrap Cas in a hug, bury his face between his neck and shoulder and just breathe him in, greedily, desperately. It was the tactile that had somehow become the greatest comfort for him in recent months, possibly due to how everyone else had begun seeking and giving physical touches and affection so often it had become become regular for him. A need. He’d begun craving it and missed it in its absence.

Too jittery to go back upstairs, too anxious in the looming, illogical possibility of being so far from Castiel Dean would get there too late if needed, he faltered, hesitated. He crossed his arms, thumb rubbing his bottom lip.

It was a pathetic, clingy, desperate part of him that wanted so badly to be near, to be there, but the shame of it, the weakness in it made him turn away.

He knew it was no different than when Charlie, or even Cas, came to him after a nightmare seeking comfort and reassurance through proximity, but it was still _different_. It was something others were allowed to do, to lean and depend on him, for _him_ to be the rock and reassurance, but he couldn’t be that, be what he was needed, if he was also in need to support and repair.

John’s voice was in his head, in his ears, reciting the same lecture he’d been instilling in Dean since age four and their first motel, explaining they couldn’t go home and what that meant for Dean. Dean was meant to be the support. The protector. The one to be relied on, and by doing anything other, he took away from those he was meant to protect. Stole from them what he was meant to give.

He knew it was wrong, that John was wrong. He could hear Max in his head as well as his father, berating the notion and encouraging Dean to give into emotion and longings, to brave taking Cas by the hand when they were in public, to seek affection as well as to give it. To stop constantly questioning-- and second-guessing-- boundaries.

It was still too hard. Even a couple of weeks in, it was still too new and different, with Dean scared more often than not about doing something wrong and screwing it all up. The thought made feel carved out.

Swallowing, he opened the ottoman and retrieved a blanket, settling onto his side on the soft leather couch. It was shockingly cold at first. He pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders, willing away the chill and finally feeling able to take a breath and _breathe_.

It was good enough. If there was a danger or threat, Dean would be right there, first line of defense and Cas would be safe.

He closed his eyes and drifted off.

 

 

A hand touched his shoulder and smoothed down his arm, warm and affectionate. He was sleepy and contented, bobbing on the edge of consciousness from the sensation and threatening to sink back down just as quickly.

“Dean?”

“Mm?”

“Why are you on the couch?”

Dean eyes snapped open, body going rigid. Cas withdrew his hand, a hint of caution in his eyes as he leaned back to afford him space. Blinking and shaking his head, Dean pushed up on his elbow, head like bogged down tires that couldn’t get traction, but that didn’t stop the red-hot embarrassment at having been caught.

“Huh? Oh. I, um… I was checking the wards.” The memory was foggy at best, but still he blushed. “Made sure we were safe.”

Cas studied him, eyes tracing over the lines and angles of his features. Dean noted his sleep rumpled look and soft pajamas. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Hn.”

“Why did you not come to me?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking to the second floor and back, snatches of memory coming back. “I just wanted to know you were safe. Be close by, I guess.”

Lip clasped and brows drawn together, Cas said, “You can come to me, you know. Just as you allow others to come to you.”

Dean dropped his gaze, rubbing his knuckles across leather. It was the same reason he chickened out of holding Cas’ hand when they went out together, the same reason he kept his touches subtle and brief, snatching his fingers away before it was seen, feeling like there was a neon sign over his head that his actions were wildly inappropriate and offensive.

He was a coward but he didn’t know how to overcome it, knew only how to be brave by millimeters not leaps.

Drawing in a breath, Cas gestured to the line of space between Dean and the edge of the couch. “Is this spot taken?”

Corners of his mouth pulling into a frown, Dean looked down and back up, head tilting to one side.

Smiling, Cas moved to climb onto the couch. Dean blinked rapidly, scooting back to afford him more room and lifting the blanket as Castiel fitted himself beside him, slotting their legs together, an arm curled around Dean’s waist. His body was still sleep-warm, seemingly lethargic as he settled his head on Dean’s arm and the pillow, practically _snuggling_ into Dean’s space and body until they were completely tangled up. Cas let his eyes drift close, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Unsure, Dean lowered his arm, swallowing thickly.

This was new and not something they’d done before. He wondered if Cas could hear his heart pounding, could feel the surge of nervous panic radiating off of him.

He swallowed again, settling back down with an arm curled around Cas’ shoulders, hand between his shoulder blades and chin resting on his head.

When would he get use to it? To the… weirdness of the change in their relationship? So many years of being friends and repressing his feelings, all the years before if his gaze lingered too long, that feeling of being caught doing wrong and being ashamed of it, resolute to not repeat it again, but unable to help himself... when would it start to feel _okay_?

When would he start to be okay with himself?

It wasn’t Cas that was the problem. Dean wasn’t ashamed of _him_. Dean was ashamed of _himself_ , filled with the horrid, panicked, vulnerable, and exposed feeling, shame that he was doing something he knew was wrong-- even though it wasn’t.

It was… strange what was between them. New. Different. Scary as all hell.

But Dean _wanted_ it.

That didn’t make it easier, just like knowing he could go to Cas didn’t make it any easier for Dean to do it. The barricade wasn’t a door. It was Dean. It was John. It was decades spent learning how to hold himself, how to stand, what to say, how to act, how to avoid getting looked down on, to be viewed as lesser, to not let any weakness show in a world that measured you by how rough, how hard, how devil-may-care you could be.

 _Not_ being that… was hard.

It wasn’t like in books and movies where, oh hey, the couple finally gets together and everything is _magically_ better and fixed. Dean was still a mess. Hell, Cas was a mess. But they were being messes together, which was better than alone, and hopefully meant they’d get through it that way, too.

He knew he could probably talk to Sam about it, not that he’d have any advice, but he’d be sympathetic and non-judgmental. Not that Winchester men ever did much talking, not regarding serious things. Probably why Dean ended up the way he had. Knowing their father would have judged him and Sam would have pitied him because of it, would have been careful and sympathetic and supportive in a way that would have only made matters worse.

John would have thrown them both out, Sam for college, Dean for… being unable to shape up and get his head on straight, as it were. Would have deemed him unable to hunt with. What Dean had initially thought was trust in his capabilities as a hunter, he would have known from the beginning was simply the desire to be free of them both so he could focus on his obsession. Having sons who relied on him had always been an unwelcome distraction. An inconvenience.

John loved them-- in his own way. That didn’t mean he did it well. Even when one son was so desperate to please, already feeling like a disappointment and failure from such a young age.

Charlie would be sympathetic and understanding, but even she couldn’t understand, not really. And the fact that she knew more than he was strictly comfortable with only made the sympathy and anger in her eyes hurt worse.

Max would probably reiterate to Dean what he already knew, the assurance that it would get better if Dean would just give it _time_ and keep _trying._ It grated on Dean like the prodding of an exposed nerve.

He _wanted_ to be magically fixed and better and _uncomplicated_ so he could focus all of his attention, instead, on Cas.

Fingertips trailed up his spine, Castiel tilting his head up to place a kiss on the underside of Dean’s jaw, making him pull back to look at him.

He gave a hint of a smile. “Dean. Stop worrying.” Dean lowered his eyes. “You keep looking at where you are versus where you want to be, always forgetting to look _back_ at where you started.” Their eyes met. “You _retired_ from _hunting_ , Dean. You moved _out_ and moved _in_ with _me_. You’re trusting Sam to step into his position with others to support him, accepting it’s not solely up to you anymore. You’re living nearly a _thousand miles_ away from him. Look at _us_. A year ago, could you have ever imagined doing _any_ of this? _Could you_ have done it?”

Dean said nothing, avoiding Cas’ eye. His stomach twisted and clenched, relieved and not by the reminder that no, he couldn’t have done all those things a year ago, but the guilt still sat. How hard was it to just be like other people?

Cas stretched, pressing his lips to the pulse of Dean’s throat, allowing his lips to linger. “You’re overthinking. Just fall asleep with me, instead,” he offered against Dean’s skin, sending a shiver down his spine. He settled back down in Dean’s arms. “Then later we can make breakfast and head into town.”

Pressing a kiss to Cas’ hair, Dean hugged him closer and conceded, feeling the tension slowly unwind. It may not have been movie-magic, but he was stupidly grateful for the progression of small victories that got him where he was.

Battles won by millimeters were still battles won, after all. And if that was how he had to make progress for this to work, for him to have and get to keep this, then that was what he'd do: one millimeter at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please don't forget to comment on fanworks as they take much longer to create than to consume! Always properly feed and water your creators if you want them to thrive. ^_^ Have a happy week!


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